


Leg Day

by Slenderlock



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bossy Bottom Bucky Barnes, Captain America Steve Rogers, First Time, Gym kink, It's a thing now, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, Third Wheel Sam Wilson, Virgin Steve Rogers, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:19:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8576425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slenderlock/pseuds/Slenderlock
Summary: “So talk to him,” Sam says.“I can’t,” Bucky groans. “I can’t, Sam, I. He just.” He fluffs his hair up and stares at Sam, distraught. “I want him to bench press me.”“Okay, so it’s serious,” Sam interprets. “Got it."(Or: The one where Sam is Bucky's long-suffering roommate, Bucky is a hot mess of a millennial, and Hot Steve spends far too much time on the Lat Pull-Down machine.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Arlennil](http://www.arlennil.tumblr.com) for betaing!  
> Thanks to [Merrytaire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merrytaire/pseuds/merrytaire) for the RP that inspired this fic!

Bucky Barnes is a mess.

Correction: Bucky Barnes is a _hot_ mess.

Not ‘hot’ in the sense that he’s blindingly attractive, but ‘hot’ in the sense that he is, quite possibly, the gayest man in New York.

Okay, maybe not the gayest. He doesn’t wear rainbow tights and a feather boa wherever he goes. But he has a contact list with more numbers than he can put names to, he has a pair of sweats that say _BABYDOLL_ on them in big block letters over the ass that he wears to the gym, and he can bake like a fucking champion. If a man’s stomach is the road to his heart, then that road’s got a little side-street that’s a one-way ride to dick-town.

Bucky Barnes is a phone-loving shameless millennial who looks up recipes and pretends he’s a culinary major on the weekends, who takes stupid photos of himself and sends them to half the people in his contact book, who gets a nice set of dick pics every Friday night.

Out of all of his contacts, one of the few that actually has a name attached to the number is his roommate, Sam.

Sam is long-suffering, but grounded. Sam complains about Bucky’s constant selfies, constant documentation of his failed baking attempts, and sporadic dick pics. (And on a few memorable occasions, he’d given some constructive criticism on those.)

But Sam is Bucky’s saving grace. Sam is the reason Bucky hasn’t drunk himself into a ditch or ended up locked up in a serial killer’s basement yet. Sam is Bucky’s safety net, and he really, really doesn’t deserve this.

“You don’t understand.”

“I think I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” Bucky sets his bottle down and points a finger at Sam. Sam doesn’t even look at him, just crosses his legs up on the footrest and keeps watching the game.

“Buck-o,” he says, flipping the remote in his hand. “I understand completely. You just met Hot Guy of the week, and you’re trying to talk him up enough to convince me to give you the apartment for the night, For The Greater Good. Trust me. I understand.”

“Saaaammm,” Bucky says.

“No.” Sam flips the remote again. “You’ve defiled this place too many times.”

“It’s not just that,” Bucky insists.

“No?” Sam takes the bait this time, abandoning the game and looking over at Bucky.

“I’m having a crisis,” Bucky moans.

“A crisis,” Sam deadpans. Bucky nods, keeping his eyes as big and woeful as he can. “How can you possibly be having a crisis? You had your gay crisis, like, fifteen years ago.”

“You weren’t there for my gay crisis, you don’t get to use that as a reference,” Bucky says, frowning. “And I’m not having another gay crisis.”

“Are you having a middle-age crisis?” Sam asks, thoroughly amused. “Because twenty-nine’s a little early for that.”

“Oh, shut up,” Bucky grumbles. “No. I’m having a crisis.”

“I guess pretty much everything you do can be called a crisis,” Sam reasons. “All right, I’ll bite. What is it?”

“So there’s this guy at my gym,” Bucky starts, and Sam lets out a low moan.

“Come on, man,” he says, holding the remote out to the heavens.

“What?” Bucky retorts. “This is a serious problem.”

“Unless he’s a serial killer who is actively stalking you, you don’t have a problem,” Sam barks. “I don’t have time for your gay white-boy problems.”

“But he’s _hot.”_

“So ask him out.”

“I _can’t.”_

“It won’t kill you.”

“I’m going to _die.”_

“Bucky-”

“I’m going to asphyxiate, Sam. From the sheer dizzying height of my own homosexuality.”

Sam sighs.

“So talk to him,” he says, turning the volume down.

“I can’t,” Bucky groans. He tugs at the bun tied at the base of his skull and his hair falls out onto his shoulders. “I can’t, Sam, I. He just.” He fluffs his hair up for a good few seconds and then stares straight at Sam, distraught. “I want him to bench press me.”

“Okay, so it’s serious,” Sam interprets. “Got it. He ever talked to you?”

Bucky sighs, sliding his jaw into his hands and looking vaguely up at the ceiling. “He said hi to me once.”

“Ooh, romantic.” Sam raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t understand,” Bucky says. “He _said hi._ Like he _meant it.”_

“Wow,” Sam says.

“It was sincere!”

“A sincere hi.” Sam gives a thoughtful nod. “Talk to him next time, idiot.”

Bucky thinks. “Hi, Hot Steve,” he says. “I want you to bench press me.”

“Maybe doesn’t start off so… bluntly,” Sam suggests.

“Hi Steve,” Bucky says. “I want you to bench press me.”

Sam rubs a hand over his face.

“Into the ground,” Bucky says. “Repeatedly.”

* * *

 

It’s been two weeks since Hot Steve showed up at Bucky’s gym. And god _damn_ does he know how to show off.

And he doesn’t even show off in that asshole way, with the unnecessary grunting and dropping weights onto the floor on purpose and _hey, isn’t that a little much for you?_ No, Hot Steve is fucking perfect in every way. He always takes the treadmill four spaces away from Bucky, not the one right next to him, not the one on the other side of the room. He always keeps to himself when he works out, never comments on anyone else’s performance, never hits on anyone. And now-

“Your back is too far-forward when you squat.”

Oh god. This asshole.

What the fuck is his name. Bucky can’t remember. But he’s been a staple of this gym since the first moment Bucky had given his name and number to the club membership office, and he’s been the only bad thing about this place since.

“Thanks,” the girl says, not looking at him. “But I’m not looking for advice right now.”

“Suit yourself,” Says Asshole McGee. He whirls around and heads for the heavy machinery, and five minutes later the gym is full of _hunnggyahh’_ s and _hhughh’_ s.

Perfect.

Hot Steve has just reached the Lat Pull-Down, and Bucky’s just seated himself at the Leg Press machine to watch, when it happens again.

“No, no, no,” Asshole McGee says. Fuck, what is his name. “You’re bringing the bar down too low.”

The girl, whose name is probably Tabitha- fuck it, all girls’ names sound the same, it’s not Bucky’s fault he can’t tell them apart, but he’s about 80 percent sure this girl’s name is Tabitha- looks up at Asshole McGee from the bench press station and opens her mouth to speak.

“You need to bend your arms at the right angle to-”

“Thanks,” Tabitha says, cutting him off. “I’m just doing what my trainer tells me, so I don’t need any more help, thank you.”

Asshole McGee- _fucking Christ what’s his name-_ gives a _tch_ sound and walks away, leaving a trail of Axe and sweat as he leaves. Tabitha rolls her eyes and, putting the weights back into their place, slips a pair of earbuds on. Bucky doesn’t blame her.

And then. And _then,_ just as Hot Steve is finishing up his Lat Pull-Downs, it happens.

Bucky, who’s been sitting motionless in the Leg Press machine for a good ten minutes, stares slack-jawed as David fucking Angar- yeah, that’s his name; Bucky remembers taking a video of the guy grunting through his workout and sharing it with Sam. They’d nicknamed him ‘Angar the Screamer’- sidles himself up next to Tabitha, who’s stretching happily on a complimentary yoga mat by the side of the gym.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re resting too much in-between sets.”

Tabitha doesn’t appear to hear him. Or if she does, she’s doing a pretty damn good job of ignoring him. Angar frowns. “Hey,” he says again. Tabitha turns away from him, earbuds still pumping music.

Across the room, Hot Steve is sitting up from his Lat machine.

“Hey, lady,” Angar says, and reaches for the earbuds. Tabitha scoots away as far as she can, until she’s up against the wall.

Bucky frowns, shoving himself out of the Leg Press and getting to his feet.

Angar grabs the earbuds and tugs.

Bucky takes a step forward, but Hot Steve is faster.

Before Bucky can do more than blink, Hot Steve’s fingers are clamped around Angar’s wrist, yanking him away from Tabitha.

“Hey, pal,” Hot Steve says, and Bucky scrambles back to the leg press machine because his sweats are a _lot_ looser when his legs are folded up and wow Hot Steve’s voice is very, very nice. He doesn’t actually hear the rest of what Hot Steve says, but by the time there’s enough blood back in his brain that he remembers how to listen, Angar’s nursing his wrist back over by the rack of weights and Tabitha’s laughing with Hot Steve over her yoga mat.

Bucky feels a sudden surge of righteous fury at this. Why does Tabitha get to laugh with Hot Steve? Why does Tabitha get to see that jawline up close? She hasn’t been watching Hot Steve for two whole weeks, she’s a normal person who goes to this gym for normal reasons, like working out.

Tabitha says something, and Hot Steve throws back his head and laughs, and Bucky’s sweatpants fit perfectly well again.

* * *

He makes angry cupcakes at two in the morning.

“You’re damn lucky I don’t have work tomorrow,” Sam warns him, swiping a finger full of frosting out of the bowl on the kitchen counter.

“I’m lucky _I_ don’t have work tomorrow,” Bucky corrects him swiftly, snatching the bowl away and setting it on the opposite counter.

“Lucky?” Sam echoes. “What, like this was inevitable?”

“It _was_ inevitable,” Bucky snaps.

“Is this stress baking or angry baking?” Sam asks, leaning on the counter and watching Bucky work.

“Guess,” Bucky grunts, returning to the mixing bowl and grabbing an egg. He slams it on the counter and it shatters, dripping all over the floor. “Shit.”

“Okay, angry baking,” Sam concludes. “What happened?”

“He,” Bucky starts, but doesn’t know how to finish. He holds a hand out. “Paper towel,” he says.

“What’s the magic word?”

“I will use _your_ bed the next time I bring someone over,” Bucky snarls. “Your sheets, your mattress, your pillows. And I _won’t_ change them out.”

“Musta been bad,” Sam hums, tearing off a few paper towels and running them under the water. He hands them down to Bucky, who starts scrubbing furiously.

“The Screamer showed up,” he says, scooping up as much egg as he can off the ground and dumping it into the compost bin under the sink.

“Ooh, drama,” Sam says. “What’d he do this time?”

“Standard shit. Started bugging people.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “And then?”

“And then he just- he just-” Bucky throws up his hands in frustration. “He just swooped in like a white fucking knight and scared him off, and then they _laughed_ about it, and he’s straight.”

“What?”

Bucky grabs another egg and taps it against the countertop. It cracks neatly around the middle and he holds it over the bowl.

“Hold up,” Sam says, watching Bucky fold the egg in as angrily as he can while still keeping the motions delicate enough. “He’s straight?”

“He has to be,” Bucky says. “He’s, like. He’s _Adonis._ He’s perfect, of course he has to be straight.”

“I’m not following,” Sam says.

“You should have seen them,” Bucky spits. “She was all _grateful_ and he was all _bashful_ and it was disgusting. I hate straight people.”

“Hey,” Sam says.

“You’re gross!” Bucky says. “You are, seriously!”

“You don’t have the liberty to call me gross,” Sam points out. “Mr. Every Surface.”

“Not every,” Bucky says, defensively. “There’s. Parts of the bathroom I haven’t covered.”

“You’re proving my point.” Sam folds his arms. “Did he actually say, explicitly, to your face, that he was straight?”

“Oh, yeah, of course, I always make that my first question,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes.

“To be fair, you do,” Sam says.

“Of course I fucking didn’t. I watched him flirt with a girl, that tells me enough.”

“Could be bi,” Sam hums, sliding around Bucky to the other counter.

“They’re never bi,” Bucky mutters. “You always hope they are, and that’s how they get you.”

“Hmm. Diabolical,” Sam agrees, swiping a finger into the bowl of frosting again.

* * *

By week three, Bucky’s starting to lose it.

Hot Steve’s been on the Hanging Leg Raise for the whole week, and Bucky might just spontaneously combust if he has to watch this much longer.

Since the Straight Incident, as Bucky has deemed it in his head, The Screamer hasn’t shown up once. It’s been an asshole-free week. Normally, an asshole-free week is something of a failure in Bucky’s eyes, but in this case, it’s a blessing. No out of place grunts, no ocean of Axe, no patronizing comments. Nothing but sweet, sweet silence.

_“Hnn.”_

Bucky’s neck nearly snaps as he whips around to see Hot Steve, legs in the air, eyes shut tight, teeth gritted together.

No, Bucky thinks.

It happens again. A low, guttural sound slides its way out of Hot Steve’s throat as he struggles to keep his legs in the air. They’re quivering, actually quivering. It’s somewhat of a miracle; Hot Steve’s the strongest person Bucky’s ever seen at this gym. He’s never made a single complaint before. And now.

 _“Gguh,”_ Hot Steve grunts.

His eyes are shut tight as he holds his legs aloft in the air, as his fists clench around the pegs, arms bulging as he holds himself aloft.

Bucky doesn’t even pretend to be using the Leg Press this time as he gawks openly at the sight of Hot Steve fucking falling apart.

Hot Steve cracks an eye open.

And looks _straight at him._

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut, dry tongue hitting the roof of his mouth. Air won’t flow down his throat, nor into his nose, and he can’t stop staring at Hot Steve why can’t he stop staring-

Hot Steve’s mouth, a tightly pressed line, curves up into a tiny, tiny smile.

And then his legs drop to the ground with a _thu-thud,_ he rolls his shoulders, and he turns his back to Bucky.

Bucky, who actually considers, for a split second, hi-tailing it to the showers and rubbing a quick one out. And then he remembers they’re public showers. And considers it again.

* * *

“Which of these says _fuck me?”_

“Uh. All of them, I guess.”

“Chocolate’s supposed to be symbolic, right?”

“They’re all chocolate.”

_“Sam.”_

Sam crosses his arms, looking down at the row of cupcakes sitting in front of him.

“What?” he says. “I can’t tell the difference!”

“Okay,” Bucky says with false patience. “Okay. This one.” He points to the one on the far left. “Mexican hot chocolate. It’s got almond flour- which could be read as pretentious, I know, but it gives it a nicer texture. It’s got spice. Like, ‘you’re hot’? Or ‘spice up my sex life’? There’s a pun in there somewhere.”

“This is why no one stays with you for more than a couple nights,” Sam deadpans. “Your puns.”

 _“This_ one,” Bucky says, pointing to the next cupcake, “is malt. Nothing really symbolic there. Okay, maybe, like. Share a milkshake with me? Like retro style? I dunno, that comes off as too date-y. But it’s good?”

“It’s good,” Sam affirms. Bucky sags in relief.

“Chocolate peanut butter,” he continues, pointing at the third one. “Standard. Symbolic. Two things coming together to make one delicious thing.” He crosses his arms. “But that runs both the risk of him being allergic to peanut butter and him straight up not liking it.”

“Both equally devastating consequences.”

“Mm, yes.” Bucky nods. “Then there’s Nutella cake and Nutella frosting-” He points to the fourth cake. “Also contributes to the theme of two things coming together, but a little more subtle about it. Too subtle, maybe, he’ll miss the metaphor.” He ignores the way Sam checks his phone under the table. “And then just. Plain chocolate.”

“Man, you could get laid with any one of these,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I dunno what to tell you.”

“But which of them says _fuck me?”_ Bucky whines. “I don’t want them to come off too sweet.” He pauses. “Ha.”

Sam sighs.

“This is a serious decision,” Bucky says. “He gave me _fuck me_ eyes, so I have to give him _fuck me_ cupcakes. _Fuckcakes.”_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sam says. “Look, you can’t just tell him you like him, or something?”

“No.”

“Be rational.”

Bucky actually laughs at that one. Sam narrows his eyes.

“James,” he says.

“James is gone,” Bucky crows, still laughing. “No one left now but Bucky the Fuckee.”

“Christ,” Sam murmurs. “There’s no helping you now.” He thinks for a moment. “Go with the Mexican,” he says finally, shrugging. “You got the most puns out of it.”

Bucky looks at the line of cupcakes.

“But I like the malt,” he says, and Sam looks at the ceiling.

“You are legitimately the worst person I have ever known.”

* * *

On the Monday that dawns the fourth week, Bucky walks straight through the locker rooms without glancing at a single shower-goer.

Hot Steve is on the Rowing Machine now, his white tank top already nearly transparent with sweat. He glances up to give his signature Nice Smile to everyone who passes him, as Bucky strides up to the machine, and stops short at the sight of him.

Bucky’s not surprised. Usually he comes decked out in normal gym attire- a dark tank top, workout pants, maybe shorts if it’s a hot day. But today he’s in full hipster wear. His hair’s bunched up in a messy bun- completely different from an actually messy bun that’s messy from being worn all day; this is intentionally messy, there’s a difference.

He’s kept the tank, but it’s a low cut one he reserves for special occasions. Sam calls it the ‘dumpster diver’ because he can pick up anyone in this shirt, no matter how trashy the place. But he’s framed it with a button up flannel, dark red, rolled up to his elbows. And his jeans.

They’re his _fuck me_ pair. Jet black, hugging his hips, hugging his everything, really. Topped off with a pair of lace up boots that scream _bossy bottom,_ every inch of Bucky is yearning for this man.

“Uh,” Hot Steve says.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding out an awkwardly large Tupperware container.

Hot Steve stops his workout, looking down at the Tupperware in Bucky’s hands, and then back up to his face. He licks his lips.

“For you,” Bucky clarifies, offering the Tupperware out again.

Hot Steve takes it, still staring up at Bucky.

“Oh,” Bucky says, as if he’s just remembered something. He reaches down into his boot and pulls out the sharpie that had been riding up against his ankle since he’d laced those damn things on this morning. He uncaps the pen with his teeth- and really hopes that it’s not his imagination when he hears a soft intake of breath- and leans over to scribble on Hot Steve’s forearm.

When he’s got the number down, he stands back up again and caps the pen.

“Bye,” he says, and turns on his heel.

He doesn’t want to look back. This has to be a dramatic exit, he can’t look back, he can’t-

He looks back as he reaches the door. Hot Steve is staring open-mouthed at him, Tupperware in his hands. Heart racing, Bucky chances a cheeky wink- _Barnes, you fucking idiot, what the fuck are you doing-_ and slides out the door.

* * *

“It worked.”

“Oh, you talked to him?”

“No, idiot.”

Sam shuts off the water, sponge in hand. “It worked but you didn’t talk to him.”

“Well,” Bucky says. “I gave them to him.”

“How’d he take it?”

“I don’t know, I left,” Bucky says.

Sam stares.

“I had to!” Bucky, wide eyed, heads to the dishwasher and starts pulling out dishes. “It was dramatic!”

Sam frowns, tugging the plate and glass out of Bucky’s hands. “Those are dirty.”

“No, they’re clean.”

“They _were_ clean,” Sam corrects. “And then I took the clean ones out, put them away, and put the dirty ones in.”

“Oh,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, that’s how a dishwasher works,” Sam snaps, putting the plate and the glass back into the machine. “Maybe you should use it every once in a while.”

“I put my dishes in the sink,” Bucky protests.

“Yeah, and then the magic dish fairy comes and cleans ‘em all up for you,” Sam sing-songs.

“I have to fuck him,” Bucky says. “Please.”

“Dancing With the Stars is on tonight,” Sam says. “No.”

“Please,” Bucky moans. “Come on, you helped me bake those damn things, you knew what I was gonna do.”

“I thought you were gonna woo him like a normal person.”

“Normal people don’t ‘woo’.” Bucky folds his arms. “I’ll. I’ll. Buy you something.”

“No.”

“An edible arrangement.”

“No.”

“A vibrator?”

“What- _no.”_

“Don’t tell me you don’t have one.”

“Bucky-”

“If you’ve seriously never tried-”

“You are not buying me a vibrator.” Sam holds out the sponge as if it’s a weapon. Bucky looks at it skeptically.

“Let me have the apartment,” Bucky says.

Sam squeezes the sponge. Dirt-brown water splatters down onto Bucky’s left sock. Bucky swears and hitches his leg up, trying to reach the sock to pull it off. In these pants, it’s nigh-impossible to bend them up enough.

“You still don’t know if he’ll even call you,” Sam points out.

As if on fucking cue, because Bucky’s life either works like a perfect comedy or a perfect fucking tragedy, his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket. He cracks a grin that can only really be described as _shit-eating_ at Sam as he pulls it out, slides open the call, and presses it to his ear, bent leg slamming back onto the kitchen floor.

“He _llo,”_ he says.

“Hi,” says Hot Steve. Bucky stares straight at Sam and mouths _I fucking told you so._ Sam’s face screws up a little bit. It’s fine; Bucky’s not that great with non-verbal communication. “I liked your cupcakes.”

“Liked?” Bucky repeats, abandoning the effort of trying to gloat at Sam and striking a smug pose against the kitchen counter instead. “You went through all of ‘em already?”

“I had help,” Hot Steve admits. “But I saved most of them for myself.”

“Aww,” Bucky says, twirling a hand up in his hair. His bun falls out again. Sam rolls his eyes hard enough to swivel his entire body and goes back to the sink. “So you did like ‘em.”

“I did,” Hot Steve says. “I liked the spice. Added a nice kick.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says. “I like to spice things up.”

Sam swears into the sink.

Hot Steve laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. “That’s a little rich, coming from such a machine hogger.”

“What?” That takes him aback. Sam looks up from the sink, interested now. Bucky scowls at him.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice you using the Leg Press every single day?” Hot Steve asks, and goddamn it, now there’s that teasing note to his voice. This is wrong. _Bucky’s_ supposed to be the one with the teasing voice. What the fuck, what the fuck-

“Well, I,” he tries.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice that the Leg Press has the best view of the room?” Hot Steve continues. Christ, he sounds like he’s fucking rehearsed this. He probably has, the perfect fucker. “And did you think I wouldn’t take a glance at the mirror wall every so often to watch you staring at me?”

“I,” Bucky says.

Something cold _smacks_ onto his right foot, soaking his sock clean through.

“Mother _fucker,”_ Bucky shouts, yanking his foot up off the ground and almost kicking the sponge out of Sam’s hand.

“Excuse me?” Hot Steve yelps.

“Not you, not you,” Bucky says hastily, trying to hit Sam with his free hand. “My asshole roommate.”

“Roommate,” Hot Steve says, voice taking a low tick for the first time since calling.

“Yeah, but don’t worry,” Bucky says. “He’ll be out of here by nine.”

“Oh?” Hot Steve says. “Well, that’s lucky.”

“Very lucky,” Bucky agrees, fighting off the sponge with renewed vigor. “Sixty five-” The sponge hits him in the face. “Bartow Avenue-”

“Uh huh,” Hot Steve says.

“Apartment four-oh-four,” Bucky gets out, and Sam tackles him to the floor.

“Nine o clock?” Hot Steve says.

“Fuck- yeah- nine,” Bucky grunts, as one of Sam’s arms clamps down around his throat.

“Okay,” Hot Steve says, and the line goes dead at the exact second that Sam shoves the sponge into Bucky’s mouth.

* * *

Steve shows up at 8:55.

Bucky’s expecting him, of course, but it’s still a shock to the system when the knock comes. Bucky checks himself over in the bathroom mirror just to make sure he’s got everything he needs. Hair’s up in a messy bun, check. Flannel on with nothing underneath, buttoned up so it’s not too obvious at first, check. Ass-hugging pants minus the belt, check. Socks and no shoes, for easy removal, check. Okay. Everything’s perfect.

He can’t fuck this up. He _cannot_ fuck this up.

He heads to the door.

“Hi,” Hot Steve says, as he opens it. Bucky opens his mouth and sneezes.

Hot Steve recoils instantly as Bucky hunches over, clutching his face.

“Oh my god,” Bucky says. “Fuck, uh- hold on- I swear I’m not sick-”

And then he looks at Hot Steve.

Hot Steve, who’s in a formal navy button down. And black dress pants. And a _belt._

Bucky panics. You don’t wear a belt to a hook-up, what the fuck? He glances down at Hot Steve’s shoes and his lips part in a silent _‘oh’,_ which must be a precursor to a silent _‘oh fuck’._ Hot Steve’s got shiny black Oxfords, complete with a little shoelace getup at the top. Hot Steve’s wearing nice shoes. Hot Steve’s wearing a belt.

Hot Steve thinks-

“Are you okay?” Hot Steve asks, taking a step forward. Bucky blinks, and the bouquet of chrysanthemums in Hot Steve’s hand swims into focus.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, shaking his head. The carefully constructed bun quivers dangerously. “Just. Allergic.”

“Oh!” Hot Steve looks, horror struck, at the flowers in his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, you didn’t know,” Bucky starts, and feels the pollen again. “Shit, um. Come in.”

Hot Steve walks sheepishly into the apartment, looking curiously around at the walls and the decorations. Bucky and Sam don’t have much in the way of art or décor, but there’s enough crap scattered around to make it recognizably ‘home’.

“Here,” Bucky says, leading Hot Steve to the kitchen. “There’s, uh. Filtered water in the fridge. And food. If you want.”

“Okay,” Hot Steve says.

“I’ll be right back,” Bucky says, “I’m just gonna, um.”

“Sure.”

The moment Bucky makes it into the bathroom, he flicks his phone on and dials Sam.

“I swear to god,” is the first thing Sam says, “if you’re trying to call me in the middle of your weird one night stand to boast, I am kicking you-”

“I fucked it up,” Bucky breathes into the phone.

“What?” Sam’s voice is too loud, and there’s background noise that Bucky can’t make out. He must be out somewhere with his friends- partying, or something. “How could you have _possibly_ fucked it up? _This fast?”_

“I don’t know, I don’t _know,”_ Bucky whines, “but I did. Sam, he came over in _dress shoes.”_

“Oh no,” Sam says.

“He brought flowers and shit- I think he thinks this is a _date.”_

“Huh,” Sam says.

“Well?” Bucky urges. “This is a _crisis.”_

“Again. Everything with you is a crisis,” Sam says. “Look. Just be upfront with him.”

“I’m gonna scare him off if I do that.”

“Then have a date like a normal person, make him dinner. And if it goes well, you could still score.”

“One,” Bucky says, “normal people do not have dinner at nine at night. Two, that’ll take forever and I do not have that kind of patience-”

“You had enough patience to spend four weeks pining,” Sam points out.

 _“Three,”_ Bucky grits through his teeth, “I don’t know how to fucking cook.”

“What?” Sam snorts. “Of course you do. You cook all the time.”

“I bake, there’s a difference,” Bucky snaps. “Any idiot can bake, you look up a recipe and follow the instructions, there’s no room for interpretation. A goes into B, makes C, you’re done. I can’t _cook.”_

“Bucky-”

“Cooking is- I mean, you gotta- there’s improvisation, you have to work at it and know what you’re doing, and shit. I can’t just- I can’t just do that, I can’t-”

“Bucky.”

_“What?”_

“Calm down.”

Bucky breathes.

Even though he’s practically yelling over the background noise, Sam’s voice manages to have that goddamn calming tone to it that Bucky’s grown so used to. “Stop stalling. Go out there and be honest. If he’s an asshole, whatever, he’ll leave. But if he’s not, he’ll understand. All right?”

Bucky sighs. “All right.”

“Good,” Sam says. “Go.”

Bucky pulls the phone off of his ear.

“Wait,” Sam’s voice says. Bucky slaps the phone back.

“What?”

“I got you fresh condoms,” Sam shouts, over the din of whatever the fuck is going on wherever the fuck he is. “They’re in the bathroom.”

“Sam,” Bucky says.

“Please don’t make any weird gay thank-you’s,” Sam says. “Just go.”

“I swear,” Bucky says. “I swear to god, you would have been my rebound so many times if you liked cock-”

“I hate you,” Sam says, and hangs up.

Steve is, of course, still sitting politely at the kitchen table when Bucky comes out of the bathroom. He’s even gotten himself a glass of water, already half empty. He looks up and smiles when Bucky comes in. The flowers, Bucky notices, are nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” he says, standing from the table. “Listen, I’m really sorry about-”

“Wait,” Bucky says, and Steve’s face falls. “Not that kind of wait,” Bucky says. “Well, uh. Maybe it is. Just.”

“Just?” Steve repeats, puzzled.

“I was gonna,” Bucky says, thumbs worrying the edges of his jeans. Steve’s eyes flicker downward but spring right back up. “I mean. I wanted you to come over, cause.”

Steve’s puzzled face remains in place.

“I thought we were gonna,” Bucky says.

“Oh,” Steve says. “Oh!”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, laughing with relief.

“No, no,” Steve says. “I know.”

Bucky blinks. “You do?”

Steve nods. “Yes,” he says. “I- well. I dressed up.”

Bucky stares.

“That,” he says. “That’s.” Steve blinks, and Bucky makes a vague gesture towards Steve’s, well, everything. “That’s your version of dressing up?”

“Well, yes,” Steve says, slightly defensive.

“I don’t mean- not that it doesn't look good on you,” Bucky says hastily. “But- it’s a bit, like. ‘Going to a fancy dinner’ kinda dressed up, don’tcha think?”

Steve looks down at his button up. “I suppose,” he says slowly.

“I mean, it was the belt that got me,” Bucky adds. “And the shoes.”

“What’s wrong with my shoes?” Steve frowns, looking down.

“Nothin’s wrong with em, trust me,” Bucky says. “I just think they’d look better on my floor, that’s all.”

Steve frowns at his shoes. And then Hot Steve looks up, looks Bucky straight in the eyes. And okay, all right, maybe that line hadn’t been one of Bucky’s best, but it was still a smooth line, which is more than he can say for Mr. Dress Shoes over here-

“What’s your name?” Steve asks.

“Bucky,” says Bucky.

“All right, then,” Steve says. “Bucky.”

Hot Steve is back. It’s Hot Steve, it’s fucking Hot Steve again and Bucky’s knees turn into lead. He sinks about three feet down into the ground- at least, that’s what it feels like- as Hot Steve looks him straight in the eyes and starts to speak again.

“I want to make sure we get one thing clear,” he says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

“I am here,” Steve says, “because I’m going to fuck you until your bed cracks in half.”

Bucky’s lips part but no sound leaves his mouth.

“And I’m going to fuck you on your bed,” Steve continues, “because you left before I could pull you into the showers and fuck you _there.”_

“To be fair,” Bucky says, “that whole place kinda smells like shit.”

“You never shut up, do you,” Steve muses.

“Not usually,” Bucky agrees. “Well, unless I’ve got a good reason to-”

Steve kisses him.

Bucky usually kisses like he’s trying to close a deal, like every offer is the promise of something more. He entices, captures, draws people back in. His tongue can do wonders; he can draw out sounds of desperation and gratification with one flick.

 _Steve_ kisses like an animal.

Steve’s teeth nip far too much and his tongue just slides down Bucky’s throat like it belongs there. Not that Bucky’s complaining, but okay, technique, come on. It almost reminds Bucky of how he’d kissed girls back in high school, ha, back when he’d thought he was straight. Back when he’d had no idea how to kiss. Back when.

Oh.

Bucky pulls off, wide-eyed.

“Was that your first kiss?” he blurts out, before he can stop himself.

Steve blinks. And then, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life, he starts to shake with laughter. It’s the wheezing kind of laughter, the kind that vaults up four octaves before crashing down again. Bucky stares, but Steve just keeps laughing.

“No,” he says, snorting a little. “Well, I- not quite.”

“Not quite,” Bucky echoes.

“I’ve,” Steve says. “Kissed people before.”

“Not like that?” Bucky guesses.

“Not like that,” Steve agrees.

“Wait,” Bucky says. “Then- wait.” He blinks. “You’re not. Are you a virgin?”

Steve bites his lip.

“You are!” Bucky points. “You’re a virgin! Oh my god!”

“Um,” Steve says.

“You were doing the- the dirty talk thing, but- you’re a total virgin, holy shit,” Bucky gushes. This cannot be real, this _cannot_ be real. No fucking way has Hot Steve The Adonis found a way to be _even more pure._

“I’m sorry,” Steve starts, but Bucky’s _whoop_ of joy cuts him off.

“Oh my god, come here.”

He grabs Steve’s wrist and pulls him out of the kitchen and down the hall, kicks open his door, and slams it shut behind them.

“Wait,” Steve says, but Bucky’s already leapt onto his bed and tugged Steve down with him.

“Get your ridiculous dress shoes off, you’re not ninety,” Bucky says, already toeing off his own socks. “And that belt, oh my god, out, off, away, get it away.”

Steve complies, biting his lip to hold back a grin. Bucky catches it anyway.

“I take it you don’t mind?” he prompts, as he slides the belt off and tosses it onto the floor.

“No, no, course not. This is perfect,” Bucky says. “I was worried you’d wanna bottom, or something.”

“Worried?” Steve frowns. “Wouldn’t that be, ah. Good? For you?” He drops one shoe to the ground.

“Oh, sure, anything would be good,” Bucky agrees. “But I’ve been dreamin’ about you bench pressing me for _ages,_ this is a fuckin’ dream come true right here.”

Steve’s other shoe hits the floor with a _clunk,_ bouncing off the first and landing somewhere under the bed.

“Bench pressing, huh,” Steve says, failing to hold back a laugh.

“I was gonna open with that,” Bucky admits.

“What made you change your mind?” Steve’s toeing off his own socks now, as Bucky watches him.

“My conscience,” Bucky says, because Sam’s close enough. He’s far past the point of feeling weird thinking of Sam when he’s in bed with someone; it’s just happened so many times. So he brushes the thought off and looks at Steve instead.

“Wise decision,” Steve says. “Though I’ll admit, I think any line you threw at me would have worked.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky grins, reaching for his neck and undoing the next button. He can fucking _see_ Steve’s eyes widen as he realizes that no, Bucky doesn’t have anything on underneath the damn thing.

“Wow, you really are ready,” Steve says, shaking his head as Bucky undoes the button after that. “Come on, off with it. I already know what you look like. You and your tank tops, I swear to god.”

“Like you’re any better,” Bucky retorts, undoing the last two buttons and shrugging the shirt off. “At least mine are dark- you gotta go with the white ones, course, gotta let everyone know how good you look under ‘em.”

“You think I look good?”

Fucking tease.

Steve doesn’t give Bucky a chance to respond before he presses his hands onto Bucky’s shoulders and shoves him down. Bucky’s head hits the pillows before his back hits the blankets, and the air knocks out of him with a rush. Steve, smirking, looks down at him.

“You seem awful confident for someone who’s never done this before,” Bucky snarks.

“I don’t see you complaining.”

“If you don’t get that shirt of yours off, I will be,” Bucky threatens.

Steve snorts, but sits up and unbuttons the shirt that shouldn’t be as tight over his chest as it is. It almost looks painful, honestly. Bucky can practically hear the fibers sighing in relief as the buttons pop loose and the thing slides off Steve’s shoulders.

“Wait,” Bucky says, as Steve tosses the shirt over towards his shoes. “Let me see that.”

Steve frowns as Bucky sits up and reaches for his arm. Bucky’s fingers trace over the now faded sharpie marks bearing his number in sloppy handwriting.

“Oh,” Steve says, “that. I took a shower.”

He blushes as he says it. As if admitting that he’d taken a shower and expected to come here and do this is somehow more embarrassing than _being in Bucky’s bed and doing this._

Bucky flops back down onto the bed, keeping a tight hold of Steve’s arm as he does so. Steve vaults forward with a little noise of surprise and flops down on top of Bucky, only propping his arms up _just_ in time.

“Daaaamn,” Bucky moans, looking up at Steve’s chest in all its glory. It’s so. Big.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Steve chuckles. He even does the friendly chuckle. Goddamn it.

Bucky’s hands move of their own accord, pressing flat against Steve’s pectorals. He doesn’t even go straight for the nipples, he just takes his time feeling them out. Steve is warm and smooth and gorgeous- Bucky wants to savor him.

Savor. Huh.

Bucky does one night stands. Bucky doesn’t _date._ Bucky is the kind of guy who hides in his bathroom and calls for help the moment he thinks someone might even be trying to date him.

So isn’t this going to be awkward when he steps into the gym next Wednesday.

Well, he thinks, he’s been through many more awkward times before. Sam comes to mind again. And again, Sam, Jesus, get out of the bedroom thoughts. Why the fuck does Sam always come into the bedroom thoughts?

“Hello?”

Bucky snaps to attention, hands still frozen over Steve’s pecs. His thumbs and forefingers seem to have done their jobs while his brain was absent, because they’re working Steve’s nipples in slow, lazy little pinches and tugs.

“Hey,” he says, and gives them both a sharp tweak. Steve’s whole body shudders.

“Huh,” Steve says, looking down at his chest.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, grinning. “They do that.”

“I thought,” Steve mutters. “I mean, I’ve seen. I’ve tried.”

“It’s different when it’s someone else,” Bucky says sagely. “For instance.” He lifts his head up off the pillows and presses his lips to Steve’s right nipple, swiping his tongue over it. Steve does that shudder thing again, this time letting a little sound leave his throat.

“How,” he says.

“Oh, yeah,” Bucky murmurs. “Ohhh, yes. Come _here.”_

He rolls them so he’s on top, looking down at the glorious feast that is Steve’s chest.

“Ever since I fucking saw you in that,” he mutters, pressing his mouth anywhere and everywhere it can reach, “fucking tank top.” He reaches Steve’s left nipple and bites, tugging it up and suckling hard. Steve’s hips buck, and Bucky feels the heavy weight of what must be his cock under his dress pants, pressing up against his stomach. Jesus, okay, he’s going to have to stretch for this one.

“Yeah?” Steve eggs him on, reaching down and fiddling with his beautifully crafted, hand-sculpted bun. It tugs, but it doesn’t come out just yet. “You think about me?”

“Fuck yeah,” Bucky murmurs, kissing down to Steve’s stomach. There’s surprisingly little hair on his chest, but his stomach fuzzes down into a delicious little trail. He’s so fucking perfect, how the fuck. “Wanted you to pin me down with those fucking arms of yours, take what you wanted.”

“Jesus,” Steve says, and that’s _definitely_ his cock giving an interested twitch. It presses against Bucky’s chest now, he’s slid down so low.

“Thought maybe one day I could catch you in the showers,” Bucky says, sliding his fingertips underneath the waistband of Steve’s stupid dress pants, seriously, _fucking dress pants._ “When no one else was around.”

“Fuck,” Steve breathes.

Bucky’s fingers wiggle, but. But there’s nothing else to pull down, what the fuck, where’s the-

“What,” Bucky says, as he pulls down the single layer keeping Steve’s beautiful cock from the world.

“I told you,” Steve murmurs, lifting his hips so Bucky can slide the pants right off and down. “I dressed up.”

“Fuuuuck,” Bucky says.

He’s really going to have to stretch for this one. Steve’s cock is astronomical, curving up into a perfect tip, flushed and leaking already. And even though he’s Bucky’s wet dream in corporeal form, even Bucky isn’t completely hard yet, how the fuck? Does he have some kind of magic libido?

He feels his tongue move before he knows he’s moving it, and before he knows what he’s doing, it’s pressed flat against the head of Steve’s perfect beautiful cock, breaking the perfect bead of precome. He drags it slowly up, flicking the tip of his tongue over the slit just because he fucking can.

“Never had one of these before?” he prompts, looking up at Steve from between his legs.

Steve shakes his head mutely.

“Try not to come on my face,” Bucky says cockily, and gives another cheeky wink. Steve doesn’t even snark back, just nods mutely.

It might be a pain in the ass- ha- to stretch himself open for a cock like this, but it’s absolute heaven for his throat. Bucky’s always been a slut for things in his mouth, which had been a blessing when he’d realized just how useful a good mouth could be.

He has to start slowly on this one, though. Make it good. It’s Steve’s first blowie, he has to give them a good rep.

He sinks down and licks around the base, pressing soft kisses as he goes. He can _feel_ Steve’s eyes watching him as he goes, as he laps at the skin. He licks one solid stripe from base to tip, and watches as Steve’s cock gives an answering twitch, dribbling out another little bead of precome. He licks it off happily, gives that slit a kiss, then presses his lips back down, parts them, and sinks.

Steve makes an absolutely _gorgeous_ sound as he slides his mouth down, down, until the head of Steve’s cock bumps against the back of his throat. It doesn’t take long; he only gets about halfway down.

Something tugs his hair and he looks up to see Steve biting his bottom lip, clutching at his bun like it’s a lifeline. As if sensing now is the time, the bun gives way and Bucky’s hair falls loose to his shoulders. Steve grips it again, even harder.

Bucky looks up and him and gives what he hopes is a comforting look. It’s hard to give any kind of look when there’s a cock stuffed in his mouth, but sometimes messages get across. Steve nods down at him, which is good enough, so he starts to move.

It’s easier to do this sort of thing with a small cock. Small cocks are perfect for slurping, swallowing, and licking. Big cocks like this- the kind that stretch Bucky’s lips when they pass through, the kind that pin his tongue down to the bottom of his mouth, the kind that leave him starving for air… Well, there’s a certain kind of joy big cocks bring him that little cocks don’t, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

He bobs slowly, focusing more on tongue than on carnal movement. Steve seems to appreciate it, if his yanks and tugs at Bucky’s hair are any indication. The head of Steve’s cock bumps again and again onto the back of his throat, and every single time it does, Steve gives a little noise.

He pulls off, spit strings trailing from his bottom lip down to Steve’s cock, where they slide down the sides and drip onto the mattress below.

“You stopped,” Steve says stupidly, looking up at him. “Why?”

“Hold on,” Bucky says, and reaches over Steve, for his bedside table. “I’m gonna let you skip this step, cause it’s messy, and cause, frankly, I can do it better than you can.”

He pulls out his trusty bottle of lube and shuts the drawer, giving Steve an apologetic smile.

He sits up, wriggles out of his jeans and boxers, and shoves them both to the floor. Steve stares openly as he uncaps the lube and squirts out a generous amount onto his right hand, but Bucky ignores him. He slicks the stuff between his fingers, sets the bottle down on the table, reaches behind him, and slides two fingers right inside.

They fit perfectly, and he makes a satisfied sound, scooting back to get a better angle.

“Oh,” Steve says.

“Won’t take long,” Bucky assures him. “But hey, in the meantime.”

And he sinks back down onto Steve’s cock.

It takes him barely ten minutes to stretch himself completely to four fingers. There are some perks to being a complete slut, it turns out, and this is one of them. Sex with Hot Steve is one of those perks. Thank fucking god.

As he feels the barest hint of a burn disappear under four fingers, he gives a celebratory bob of his head, sinking down as far as he can go. He almost, _almost_ makes it all the way down. His nose comes close enough to brush against the little fuzz of hair at the end of that happy trail, but he can’t quite do it.

Steve seems to find it good enough, though, because he gives a shout and comes down Bucky’s throat.

Surprised but not too taken aback, Bucky stays down for the whole of it, letting Steve ride out his orgasm until there’s nothing left. It takes _forever,_ he can feel it as come drips down his throat again and again. Jesus, what is with this guy?

He slides off when Steve is done, giving the head another little kiss.

It’s a little disappointing, but he supposes he should have expected it. After all, it is Steve’s first time. Of course, he’d be sensitive, of course. Bucky’s only regret is that now he’s stretched himself for nothing. He has toys and everything, but. Damn, he’d been looking forward to that thing splitting him open.

He pulls his fingers out and yanks a couple tissues from his bedside table, wiping them off.

“Well,” he says, looking down at Steve’s spit slick cock and smiling proudly. “That went well.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, cheeks pink. “I meant to warn you, but.”

“Slipped your mind?” Bucky guesses. Steve nods. “Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.” He sits back on his knees and yawns, looking over his shoulder at the door. “Well, you’re welcome to stay the night if you want, I won’t kick you out. It’s late.”

“What?” Steve frowns. “But I thought you were gonna…” He looks at Bucky’s fingers, which are still sticky even if they’re technically dry.

“Well, I was.” Bucky shrugs. “But I don’t expect you to-” He breaks off, looking down.

Steve’s hard again.

Not just post-orgasmic twitching hard, no. He’s at full attention, twelve o clock, flushed red, leaking hard.

What the actual fuck.

“Huh,” Bucky says.

He has the strangest temptation to reach out and poke it, just to make sure it’s real.

“Give me a condom,” he says.

“Um,” Steve says.

“In the drawer.” Bucky points. “I had one in my back pocket but.” He shrugs, looking down at his jeans. They’re more than an arm’s distance away. “Eh,” he says.

“For someone who goes to the gym as regularly as you do,” Steve says, reaching into the drawer and fiddling around in it, “you sure are lazy.”

“Eh,” Bucky says again, and Steve snorts. Steve’s hand emerges triumphantly with the condom. “Did you wanna do that yourself?” Bucky asks. “Or I can?”

“Be my guest.” Steve hands the condom out and Bucky takes it gratefully, unwrapping it with his teeth. Sticky hands and condom packaging do not mix, he has learned.

He pops the thing in his mouth, feels it out. This is his trick, he’s done this before. And on one memorable occasion, he’d done it to a guy in an alleyway without the guy ever realizing. That’s the secret to alleyway fucks- surreptitious condom application.

He pinches the tip with his teeth, making sure there’s no air bubble stuck inside, and then presses the thing down on Steve’s cock. Using his tongue, he rolls it open, roll after roll after roll. But his mouth stops three-quarters of the way down, and he has to pull off and do the rest by hand.

“I can usually do the whole thing,” he says, feeling oddly defensive.

“You tried,” Steve says, sounding oddly genuine in his praise. “That’s what counts.”

“Oh, shut up and fuck me.”

“Gladly.”

This time it’s Steve who flips them, until Bucky’s lying on his back, looking up at him.

“Go slow,” Bucky tells him. He reaches for the bottle of lube and hands it out. “Here. Use a lot.”

“Okay,” Steve says, taking the bottle. He squeezes it- and the entire contents spill out onto his hands. “Oh,” he says. “Uh.”

“Oh my god.” Bucky reaches out and swipes a good dollop, then grabs his own cock- which has gone woefully un-tended to- and gives it a few strokes. “Just use it, don’t worry if you make a mess. I’ve got a washing machine.”

Steve laughs at that, and the tension breaks. He grabs his own cock nervously and gives it a few pumps. The lube slicks him up, dripping down onto the mattress below. It’s actually kind of cute.

“Okay,” Steve says again, holding his cock steady. It presses gently against Bucky’s rim, but doesn’t push yet. “You ready?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m ready,” Bucky says, nodding. “Go slow, all right? Do a little, first.”

He resists the colossal urge to say _just the tip._

“Okay,” Steve says. He takes a deep breath and pushes forward, hands on Bucky’s thighs. Bucky hooks his ankles around Steve’s waist, keeping himself secure. The head of Steve’s cock slips easily past his rim, sliding inside like it was made to fit there. It’s a stretch, yes, but it’s not an impossible stretch. It doesn’t burn, either. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, s’ good,” Bucky says, nodding. “You can do more.”

Steve nods, forgoing the _okay_ this time. Another inch or so slides in and Bucky hisses. There’s a little bit of a burn, now, but it’s a good burn.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks immediately, reaching for Bucky’s hand. Oh god, he’s adorable. Bucky wants to hug him forever. Christ.

“Fine,” Bucky says, nodding. “It’s good. Try goin’ out and back in, with just this much.”

Steve does.

The burn peaks at five shallow little thrusts, and fades away by ten.

“More,” Bucky instructs, as he feels himself relax. “Little more, now.”

They go in increments. It’s a long, slow slide, Steve pulling out every time he sinks that little bit deeper. It’s a stretch, yes, but it’s a good stretch. Bucky hasn’t felt this full in a long, long time. Toys might be big, but nothing feels as warm and alive as a good cock. And this is a _good_ cock.

“All right,” he says at last, “go for it. Go home.”

Steve laughs and presses down slowly, holding Bucky’s hips in his hands and thumbing over his skin. His cock sinks down, down, until his hips bump flush with Bucky’s ass. He stays like that for a few moments, getting used to the sensation.

“You okay?” he asks, for the hundred millionth time.

“How about this,” Bucky pants. “If I’m not, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

“Sorry,” Steve says, but he’s smiling. “Okay.”

“Great.” Bucky slides his eyes closed. “Fu- _uuuck,_ that’s good.”

Steve gives his hips an experimental bump forward. Bucky whines, squeezing his legs tighter around him.

“More?” Steve guesses.

“Gimme a sec,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “Ohh, man. Fuck.”

Steve waits as Bucky commits this moment to memory. He’s never going to have a night this good again in his life, he knows, so he has to treasure this moment. Treasure how his ass just physically can’t help from clenching down around Steve again and again, how he can feel Steve’s pulse through his cock, how he can hear Steve’s gentle huffs of breath over his skin.

“Okay,” he says, finally. “Okay. More.”

Steve doesn’t pull all the way out, at first. He sticks to little thrusts- probably because he thinks Bucky had needed more time to adjust. It’s so fucking gentlemanly of him that Bucky wants to cry. Steve’s cock is big enough that every thrust hits _everything._ He doesn’t need to aim up for Bucky’s prostate, he drags the entire weight of his cock up against it every time he moves.

Somewhere along the way, Bucky’s arms reach up and hook around Steve’s neck. And somewhere along the way, Steve lifts up enough that he holds Bucky aloft off the bed as he fucks up into him. With the new angle, he can’t pull out enough to get a good, long drag, but Bucky doesn’t care.

Steve says something, but it isn’t a word. At least, Bucky’s brain isn’t working enough to register words, because he has no idea what it is.

“Me too,” he says.

Steve kisses him.

Bucky can’t remember the last time someone’s kissed him like this.

Not ‘like this’, like unpracticed and adorably naïve; he’s had his fair share of innocent kisses. No. ‘Like this’, like in the middle of everything. When his brain is stuck up in headspace, when his brain is too punch-drunk on pleasure to think of much else than ‘keep this motion going.’

Kisses happen before and after, they don’t happen during.

The moment Steve’s tongue brushes his again, his cock gives a jump that’s, frankly, unprecedented. Well, it makes sense, given the situation. But it doesn’t make sense that a kiss of all things is what’s going to send him to the edge this time.

Steve hums happily against his mouth, kissing as best he can, bless his soul. Bucky reaches down with one hand to stroke himself, adding the slick sound of lube to the gentle slap of skin reverberating around the room.

He gasps against Steve’s mouth as he feels the edge again, thumbs over the head of his cock.

Steve must understand, because he gives another hum and leans them both down until Bucky’s lying on his back again, still kissing Steve soundly.

Bucky comes first. It’s easy; it only takes another few jerks of his hand before he sprays his own chest, coming harder than he has in months. Come splatters onto his stomach in one, two, three little bursts. One dribble makes it all the way up between his pectorals.

He lets go of his cock, exhausted, and pulls away. Steve presses a kiss to his nose before _going for it._ And oh, ouch, okay, that’s going to burn tomorrow. Bucky doesn’t mind right now; there’s a certain beauty in being torn apart like this. He lies back and lets it happen, feels Steve build up speed until he’s barely pulling out at all, until he gives a silent shout and sinks down with a sigh.

Bucky feels him shuddering as he waits it out.

He almost wishes they hadn’t needed a condom- there’s also a certain beauty in actually feeling someone come inside him. But the cleanup and the risk isn’t worth it- hell, the cleanup’s not worth it alone.

Steve leans down and kisses Bucky again, gripping at his hair this time.

It’s a kiss that seems to last for ages. Bucky swirls his tongue in little patterns, trying to get Steve to follow him. Steve isn’t the best learner, and he still kisses with too much teeth, but that’s okay. Bucky doesn’t mind.

Steve pulls off, finally, and just _looks_ at him.

And something in Bucky twists.

He’s not supposed to look at Bucky like that. He’s supposed to give a snarky one liner about gym equipment.

“Hey,” Steve says quietly.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers back. “Um. You wanna…” He wiggles his hips.

Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh!” he says, and sits up again. “Right, right, hold on, sorry.”

Bucky snorts as Steve carefully pulls out, giving Bucky’s prostate one last drag. He looks down at the condom helplessly.

“Here,” Bucky says, sitting up too. It’s simple work to take the thing off- nothing he hasn’t already done a thousand times before- but Steve seems entranced. Bucky ties it off expertly, peers through the dim light of his room, and aims for the trashcan beside the door.

“Impressive,” Steve says, as the condom hits the rim and bounces off.

Bucky snorts. “I’ve only gotten it in twice.”

“More than me,” Steve points out.

Bucky yawns, and at once every single bit of him aches. His ass aches in a sore way, but everything else is just a good ache, an exhausted ache.

Steve doesn’t even speak. He puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, pushing him gently back down onto the pillows. Bucky’s eyes slide shut, but he can feel Steve fiddling with the covers, tugging them out from under them, tugging them back up again.

And then two warm arms curl around his waist, and a chest presses flush against his back.

Oh god, he’s being spooned. Steve is spooning him. Steve is actually perfect.

Lips press against the back of his neck and he wants to cry.

“Thank you,” Steve murmurs, kissing his shoulder blade.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “No problem.”

He thinks he might have just ruined a moment, but he’s not quite sure. Steve doesn’t seem to think so, because he just gives his arms a squeeze and tucks his legs up between Bucky’s.

Bucky falls asleep with a full heart and an upside-down stomach.

* * *

“You don’t get to complain about being up early- you made the choice,” Bucky snaps.

“I will complain about whatever the hell I want, Mr. I Need The Apartment So I Can Bone Hot Steve.”

“Hot Steve boned _me,_ thank you very much.”

“I didn’t need details.”

“Well, that’s what you get for being a little bitch in my kitchen.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “C’mon, I had to come see him for myself.”

“All right, suit yourself.” Bucky shrugs. “But hey, if you suddenly have your gay crisis at the sight of him, just remember. Hands off.”

“Your property, huh?” Sam snorts. “Yeah, that’s not weird. ‘Specially ‘cause you’re a one-hit-wonder.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Whoa,” Sam says.

Bucky pulls out the bin of flour and his favorite set of measuring cups.

“What,” Sam says.

“I don’t know.” Bucky tugs the top off the tub of flour and scoops inside with the cup measure. “Just. Stuff. Happened.”

“What stuff?”

“Thought you didn’t want details.” Bucky narrows his eyes.

“Come on, now.” Sam frowns.

Bucky sighs. “I don’t _know._ He just. He’s.” He scrapes over the top of the measuring cup with a knife, leveling it. “He’s different, okay? He _did_ things.”

“What kinda things?”

“Things like.” Bucky shakes his head, dumping the flour into a bowl. He reaches into the tub again and scoops up a heaping measure. “Like, okay, it was his first time. And I kept it slow, and stuff. And then he kept asking me if _I_ was okay.”

“Aww,” Sam coos.

“Exactly!” Bucky levels off the flour and dumps it in with the rest. “And- and he kissed me.”

"Risqué,” Sam says coolly.

“You don’t understand.” Bucky shakes his head, putting the lid on the flour tub and reaching for the sugar. “He didn’t just kiss me before, or kiss me after. He kissed me the whole damn time.”

“Wow.” Sam raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Dedication.”

“And- and when it was over, he just. _Looked at me,”_ Bucky sighs, scooping out a tablespoon of sugar and tossing it in the bowl. “Like no one’s ever looked at me before, I don’t know.” It sounds stupid. _He_ sounds stupid. All of this sounds like a shitty young adult novel- if shitty young adult novel protagonists swore as much as Bucky does, and if shitty young adult novels had a _lot_ more sex than Bucky remembers them having.

“Uh,” Sam says.

“And I’ve never felt- you know me, Sam, I don’t do that with people, I don’t do the butterflies in the stomach thing. I don’t do the two dates and we’ll see how it goes, I don’t do dancing and dinners and crap, I do one night stands and booty calls, that’s what I do. But.” He sighs, grabbing the box of baking powder and his teaspoon measure. “But I don’t know if I can do that with him, I mean. He’s just. He’s _different.”_

“Steve,” Sam says.

“Yeah, Steve.” Bucky nods. “I dunno. He just feels special.”

 _“Steve,”_ Sam says.

“Yes,” Bucky says impatiently, looking up at Sam with a frown.

But Sam’s not looking at Bucky.

He’s looking at Steve.

Steve, who’s sanding a foot out from the hallway, leaning on the wall. Who’s wearing a pair of sweatpants that read _BABYDOLL_ across the front, tag sticking out right at the top. Who’s staring straight at Sam.

“Sam?” Steve says blankly.

Bucky’s about to reply that yes, this is Sam, his roommate, when he realizes that he’s never told Steve his roommate’s name is Sam. And Sam’s eyes are a little too wide to be looking just at Bucky’s fuck of the week-

“You knew _Steve?”_ Bucky thunders, looking at Sam with a mixture of incredulity and fury. “You knew _Hot Steve_ and you _didn’t tell me?”_

“I’m Hot Steve?” Steve mutters. Bucky can’t help but stare at his chest, which is bare to the world. Bucky’s left more than a few marks on there- but they’re smaller than he remembers. The dim light always makes everything look darker, he supposes.

“Okay,” Sam says, “I’m out.”

“Oh, no,” Bucky growls. “You are not leaving. You knew Hot Steve all along and you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t think he was your Steve!” Sam says. “There are lots of Steves!”

“Um,” Steve says.

Sam and Bucky look at him.

The word _BABYDOLL_ looks back.

“Sorry,” Steve says, looking like he means it. “But. Is something burning?”

* * *

After they clean the waffle iron, Bucky stands guard at the kitchen counter, stirring the waffle batter menacingly as he looks between Sam and Steve. They’re sat on opposite sides of the circular kitchen table, taking turns looking over at each other and up at Bucky.

“So,” Sam says first, because Sam is the sensible one. “This is my friend Steve.” He nods across the table. “Steve, this is my roommate. Bucky.”

“This is your roommate,” Steve says, sounding as though ‘Sam’s roommate’ is a mythological beast he’s heard stories about. “I see.”

“Yeah, I don’t,” Bucky snaps, as the waffle maker hisses. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Sam?”

“I told you,” Sam says patiently. It’s his patient voice, the one that drives Bucky up the wall. It’s his _‘well, he drove a mobile home, I’m not sure what you were expecting from this guy’_ voice. “I didn’t think he was your Steve.”

Something in Bucky’s chest sings at the thought of Steve being _his._

“How many other Steves do you know?” Bucky demands. “What, did you think we had a hundred god-like Steves running around this city?” He snorts. “Well, okay, there’s at least one more. But he doesn’t count.”

“Um,” Steve says.

Bucky’s been trying incredibly hard not to think about how Steve had been standing about ten feet away from him while he’d made his YA-novel-speech, and Steve is not helping. Every time Bucky even looks at him, Steve looks right back, that stupid fond little twinkle in his eye. Bucky hates it. It sets his heart alight and Bucky hates it.

“Steve,” Sam says, and what the fuck, is Sam afraid? His eyes certainly look it. He’s got that _‘no, I am not letting you go out without condoms, I don’t care how much of a death wish you have’_ look, the look that means he’s legitimately worried about something.

“Sam,” Steve says, frowning.

“No,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Steve, don’t.”

“Bucky, listen,” Steve says, ignoring Sam.

“I don’t,” Sam says, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t know why I bother. You’re impossible.”

Hell, if Sam’s this exasperated with Steve already, then he and Bucky are going to get along like a house on fire. Maybe Steve’s all right, Bucky thinks. Hell, maybe Steve wouldn’t mind obsessive baking. Maybe Steve wouldn’t mind countless stories of one night stands. Maybe Steve wouldn’t mind Bucky being as dangerously naïve at dating as Steve is at sex. Maybe… they balance out.

Maybe Bucky’s willing to give it a shot.

“I’m Captain America,” Steve says.

Bucky stares.

Sam puts his head down in his hands, like he can’t bear to watch this any longer. Steve doesn’t move, just fixes Bucky with that same goddamn eye-twinkle. It’s like a kind grandpa kind of eye twinkle. And there’s that little smile, like Steve knows something Bucky doesn’t. Even though that’s impossible; Steve can’t be. He can’t actually be.

Bucky tilts his head, until Steve’s jawline snaps into focus.

_Ooooohhhhhh._

“Wait,” Bucky says.

“Bucky,” Steve says, and his voice betrays that tiny little bit of worry.

“No, hold on, wait.” Bucky holds up a finger, trying to fit the pieces together. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Steve sighs, as if he’s Tragically Disappointed. “I know it’s hard to imagine,” he says, “but minority groups have always existed, no matter how much prejudice has been set upon them.”

“No, no, no,” Bucky shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

“It’s not?” Steve frowns, clearly having been about to launch into one of his speeches.

“No, c’mon.” Bucky snorts. “Everyone knows you like guys. Right?”

“Uh,” Steve says. “No?”

“You used to wear booty shorts.” Bucky stares at him. “Blue booty shorts. On _stage.”_

“It,” Steve says. “It was. A different time.”

“No, what _I’m_ saying,” Bucky says, “is that it doesn’t make sense. Why the hell would you go to a gym?”

Sam takes his face out of his hands and stares at Steve.

“Hold on, yeah,” he says. “What the hell?” He looks at Bucky, then back to Steve. “Stark’s got a perfectly well equipped exercise room for you, just so you don’t bust through all the shit in the regular exercise room. You know, the one that the rest of us use.”

“Rest of us?” Bucky echoes.

“Look,” Steve says, and his cheeks are pink again. And then Sam gives a howl, pointing straight at Steve.

“You!” he shouts. “You! You’re as bad as he is!” He points at Bucky.

"Okay, one,” Bucky says, “no one’s as bad as I am, I take personal offence to that.” He scowls at Sam, but Sam’s not even looking at him. He’s looking at Steve, whose face is getting redder by the second. Steve, who for the first time since coming into the kitchen, is steadfastly avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

“Wait,” Bucky says. “You.”

“I’m out,” Sam says. He stands up and doesn’t even bother to push the chair back in. “I’m straight up out. I have no time for gay white boy nonsense.”

“Wait, Sam,” Steve says, standing up too.

“Nope,” Sam says, shaking his head. Steve reaches for his arm, but Sam’s already miles away. “You dug your own grave with this one, Steve, I hope you’re willing to lie in it.”

“Lie _with_ it,” Bucky mutters.

Steve snorts.

Sam shoots them both a withering look as he yanks his coat off the couch by the door and shoves his arms through the sockets.

“I swear to god, Barnes, by the time I get back.” He points a finger at Bucky as he pulls the door open. “This place better be disinfected within an inch of its _life.”_

And he slams the door shut.

Bucky looks at Steve. Steve looks back.

“So,” Steve says, and Bucky closes his eyes and prays to all of the YA-novelists he can think of that this isn’t going to end in a tear-filled argument and two chapters of moping. He makes it to three names before he runs out, realizes he’s stalling, opens his eyes, and looks at Steve.

“So,” he says back, because fuck his life.

“I, um.” Steve’s still standing, and he takes a step towards the kitchen cupboards. The flour and sugar tubs are back where they belong, but the baking powder’s still open on the counter. “I really did like your cake.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, because he wants to die.

“Maybe,” Steve says slowly. “Maybe you could make them for me again?”

“I don’t,” Bucky says, because life apparently wants him to die, too. Steve’s eyes go so sad at that, just those two words, and Bucky’s heart tries to scrape its way out of his chest. “I don’t usually bake the same thing twice in a row,” he finishes lamely.

It’s true, actually, but it’s also a neat metaphor for the fact that he sleeps around like nobody else. He’s not sure if he’d meant it as a metaphor, but fuck it, there it is. Steve takes it as one, because his eyes get exponentially sadder and he looks at the ground.

“Right,” he says, nodding. “Well, that’s. Understandable.” He tries for a laugh, and it falls flat on the floor. “Wouldn’t want anything to start tasting bland, right?”

Bucky tries to laugh too. “Right,” he says. “So, um. No Mexican chocolate.”

Steve rubs the back of his neck.

“But,” Bucky says, because maybe his life isn’t quite as shitty as he thinks it is, “I can make you a malt?”

Steve’s eyes turn up.

“A malt?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods. “Like. Malt chocolate. You ever had one?”

“Couldn’t afford ‘em, much, but yeah.” Steve nods. “I don’t see malts around much, anymore.”

“They still are,” Bucky says, “just a little rarer. So.” He quirks an eyebrow up. “Malt sound good?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods again.

“I’ll have to go out and get stuff for ‘em,” Bucky adds, “so. I won’t be able to make ‘em for another couple days.”

“Oh.” Steve says. “Okay.”

“Try me again in a week?”

Steve looks at him.

“A week sounds good.”

There’s a metaphor here. It’s a metaphor about Bucky’s shitty string of shitty nights, about his inability to care enough about people he’s not interested in long enough to remember their names, about how he lives his entire life in the Now, not even sparing a second thought into the next week, the next month, the next whatever.

There’s a metaphor here, a shitty, YA-novel quality metaphor. It has something to do with one night stands, something to do with cupcakes, and something to do with trying.

And shit, if Steve- Captain America, Adonis, Hot Steve- wants him to try, then Bucky’s damn well going to try.

“On one condition,” Steve says, and the world hates him again.

“Okay?”

“You give someone else a try at the Leg Press,” Steve says. “And we’ll see about the bench pressing.”

Bucky stares. Steve’s eyes betray nothing. They’re either twinkling with sincerity or twinkling with mischief, and every inch of Bucky is dying to find out.

Steve is an ocean.

Bucky’s a twenty nine year old man who’s been diving into wading pools for fifteen years, and Steve is an ocean.

So Bucky jumps.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Update: for reference: this is what a lat pull-down machine workout looks like:
> 
>  


End file.
